Olena

Thirty Years Rising

I needed to point to the buildings, as if they all stood
for something, as if Detroit could rise again
into its own skyline, filled in
as it always is inside me:
each cracked sidewalk, each
of the uniformed girls, braided
and quiet as weeds, each bicycled boy, each man
with a car and a wife, the ones I slept with
and arranged, neatly, like a newly laid
subdivision.
But I was driving with my brother
who doesn’t like to think
of the thirty years rising
inside us, the leavened truth. He’s arrived
at the heavy black X of destination
on the inside of his forehead
and he doesn’t want to see me
looking like this: open-palmed
and childishly dressed, with hipbones
instead of children, aching
to put my sneakered feet on his new leather dash.
He doesn’t want to hear me
say something fucked-up, something like:
It’s in my bones. My sternum
runs like Woodward Avenue,
it’s pinnated, parked on, full
of dirt, holding women in wigs and cigarettes, bars
lit from the outside in, it’s overflowing
with pooltables and ashtrays. My ribs
are holding up factories and breweries, two-bedroom
houses and multi-storied lives, this strip,
this city, these sidestreets,
a bony feather.
He’s lived here all his life.
But I gave up these streets
for so many others. I hopped
turnstiles to ride the Metro,
memorized El tracks and Muni stations
until I had a huge worn subway
map in my head, but couldn’t get off at any stop,
couldn’t begin to live in any city, and couldn’t sleep
with anybody but myself. I gave up
this body for so many others. I’ve been both
an exaggeration of myself and someone
who looks just like me but sounds different.
But now I’m back
to visit both, and I need to point
to my first hotel room;
to the mortuary above which
my tall half-Chinese half-German
punkrockboyfriend fingered me
like a book in his little bed;
and to the hospital where our bonemother
died so late or so early that
we were both sound asleep.
I didn’t say it,
but: My sternum is breaking
with this, it’s sinking
like Woodward as Detroit rises around
my brother’s turn, rises and falls.
Falls not at all like this light summer rain
but hard, like someone else’s memory,
insistent, unwanted, but suddenly,
and again, being claimed.

– olena kalytiak davis

“Bio-synthetic”

Or, semiannual shit-test.

Listen to cat music.

•••••

Ft.: xanthoria (orange wall lichen), usnea (old man’s beard), cladonia rangiferina (reindeer moss), bracket fungi (shelf mushrooms), shield lichen, cushion moss, mycena haematopus (purple mushroom), and irradiated quartz (angel aura)